After seeing his son off at Heathrow, Giovanni had trouble sleeping
that night. By three in the morning, he resorted to a sleeping
pill, but still he did not completely fall asleep until well past
four o’clock.
When he woke up a few hours later, still drowsy, he didn’t feel rested, which was no great surprise. Giovanni was not prone to insomnia, but the absence of Arabella’s warmth next to him through the night could not be ignored.
He showered and dressed, then made breakfast. As he sat sipping his coffee, he thought about his life and how each day it was only becoming worse. He doubted Arabella would even talk to him anymore. She certainly wouldn’t if she knew about the Count. Telling Maurizio hadn’t been a wise choice either. His son likely thought Giovanni was senile, and from that moment forward he would treat him as an overly imaginative child who could easily bring harm to himself.
His life was better before all of the recent upheaval. One of the things he missed most about his former life was the sights and personalities of Soho. The thought alone brought him pleasure, like a favorite food, and it was one aspect of his life that he could control—he would visit Soho. It wasn’t any desire to see his old building. There was little benefit in that. But at that moment, he was in no mood to face the Count, and further work on the Brueghel could wait. Both were perfect reasons to avoid the impersonal streets of St. James’s.
He took the tube and transferred to Piccadilly Circus, then walked toward Soho and the familiar streets that had been a part of his daily life for many years. Giovanni wanted to see people he knew, have someone offer a warm greeting, or run into a past acquaintance with whom he could enjoy a genuine, heartfelt conversation.
As Giovanni wandered the streets of Soho, he recognized the futility of revisiting the past. Just as he could go to his flat, which no longer felt like home, the district where he had once worked was not the same. Even if he did bump into an old friend who insisted Giovanni tell all about his recent life, there was little he would be willing to say. There was no pride in his second marriage falling apart, nor his son’s concern about Giovanni’s mental health. There was little motivation to work, and other than during his son’s brief visit, he had not socialized with anyone for weeks. He felt cut off, adrift from the pleasant busyness of his prior existence, and he had no idea of how to get it back.
At half past ten, Giovanni decided it was a good time for a coffee, as the morning rush would be over. He reached Golden Square and was drawn to a familiar spot, the Nordic Bakery. Over the years, he had enjoyed many delightful breakfasts there, watching the morning hustle roll past. He ventured inside.
The dark blue walls, pinewood, and high ceiling were still the same, and he was delighted to be greeted by the bubbly blonde, Annie, whom he had always enjoyed chatting up. When he stepped up to the counter, her eyes widened in surprise and she reached out to take his hands in hers.
Not wanting to get too specific about his recent life, Giovanni immediately told her how much he missed Soho, the Nordic Bakery, and her.
She smiled. “Giovanni, you’re an Italian charmer, you are.”
He beamed, enjoying his decision to visit Soho, as it was the perfect remedy for his troubled state of mind. He ordered a double espresso and his favorite, a soft rye roll stuffed with salmon tartare, chives, and red onions. He paid and added a healthy tip that Annie tried to refuse.
“You have to earn that tip,” Giovanni said. “Before I go, Annie, you must join me at my table and tell me all about your life.”
She had another customer waiting but agreed to join Giovanni when she brought his order.
He found a table and sat down. While waiting, he exchanged brief but pleasant greetings with a few people who stopped in to buy takeout. He lingered, luxuriating in the feeling of an oppressive burden temporarily lifted from his shoulders.
Annie spoke briefly to a fellow waitress, then brought Giovanni’s order to his table and sat down with him. He asked her to update him on her life, and with relish, it spilled out of her, all the little trappings of her existence. Her kitten Jonquil, the young man she was dating, the rock band they had just seen. Giovanni did not know anything about rock music, but he drank in Annie’s enthusiasm, as her exuberance for such seemingly small things clearly brought her great happiness. Twice Giovanni deflected her inquiries about his life, and he did so with such interest in her affairs that again she would launch into another tangent, talking nonstop.
Annie glanced over her shoulder. Her coworker had the store under control, handling the one customer at the counter. Back to Giovanni, she said, “Now tell me, what is going on with you? Eh? You’re being rather quiet, aren’t you?”
Giovanni smiled and considered taking a risk. He could ask her about the Count, without, of course, telling her who the Count was, just to see what she might say.
“I know you have to get back to work,” he said, “but may I ask your opinion about a friend of mine? I like him very much, but he is upsetting me.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’d be glad to help. Is this someone in the art world?”
Clever young woman, he thought. “Yes, Annie. You might say he is an expert on art as well as history. I love his stories, utterly fascinating. But he is, how shall I say? Abrupt. He does not mince words. If he does not like something, he says so without hesitation. And when he does not like other friends of mine, he does not spare my feelings in telling me.”
“Is he cruel?” Annie wrinkled her nose. “One thing I simply cannot tolerate is cruelty.”
“I wouldn’t say cruel,” Giovanni replied. “It’s just that he doesn’t censor himself. Still, I value his friendship. The problem now, dear Annie, is that he and I have an argument over an unsigned painting.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. You mean, you disagree on the price?”
“Not that. He insists the painting is by a famous painter, and I say it is not.”
“Well, in your field, how does one normally go about resolving these arguments?”
“There are special laboratories that analyze the pigments, X-ray the artwork, and other scientific procedures that determine the work’s age. If the time period is correct, then art historians are hired to judge the work’s authenticity. The entire process can be very expensive.”
“I don’t know much about art,” she said. “Would the painting be worth a lot if it is done by this famous artist?”
“Oh, yes.” Giovanni chuckled. “I would not have to work for a long while, if it is. But I doubt it.”
Annie twiddled strands of her blond hair. “Still, Gio, what if it’s the real thing? I would go mad, not knowing for sure. It’s like, well, like being a semi-finalist in a contest and never finding out if you’ve won.” Annie looked back at the counter. It was getting close to the lunch hour and three customers were waiting. She got up from the table.
Giovanni rose with her. “Annie, you make a very good point. I must think seriously about what you’ve said.”
“And think seriously about coming by more often, will you?” She gave him a peck on the cheek and then hurried off to help the waiting customers.
* * *
Filled with food and lighter cheer, Giovanni walked back to St.
James’s and to his studio. He came off the elevator, unlocked the
door, and punched in the last of the security codes.
He sat at his desk and thought about all that had happened since the painting had first startled him with its disembodied voice. His life had been jolted so abruptly that all he had taken for granted was now unpredictable, uncomfortable, unrecognizable.
Giovanni realized that the Count had become a reliable source of distraction from his woes. But at the same time, the conversations they had, in a very real sense, took him away from the normal realm. Even talking to Annie, he regulated his words so that she would not think he had lost his mind. Giovanni’s behavior had changed dramatically since he had opened that crate. He felt haunted. Then Giovanni had a new thought, as the murky noon sun struggled through the window in front of him. He wondered if his father had heard the Count’s voice. If so, it must have startled him too. But if true, his father had never shared the secret with him, as Giovanni had with his son.
He wanted the answers to these questions and more. He went to the strong room, brought out the painting, and set it on the easel.
“Hello and good afternoon, Count. Are you there?”
“I am not likely to be anywhere else, am I?”
Giovanni smiled. He was beginning to enjoy the Count’s sardonic responses.
“I told my son about you.”
“Then surely he felt remorse for his insults directed at me.”
“Not really,” Giovanni said. “If I had to guess, he’s more worried about me. He probably thinks I’m entering a period of dementia.”
“Do you think you are imagining my voice, Signor Fabrizzi?”
“No,” Giovanni stated flatly. “But my son does.”
“Then he questions the information I have shared with you.”
“He thinks I read it in a book and just don’t remember.”
“Hmm,” the Count murmured. “Some are apt to choose the first supposed explanation, however improbable.”
“He’s right though,” Giovanni said. “It’s all improbable. I don’t have an answer to explain it.”
“I do,” the Count shot back. “My spirit is alive, simple as that, and no amount of your trying to explain it, scientifically and rationally, will ever suffice.”
“Can’t you understand?” Giovanni said. “I feel like I have a secret life that I have to hide from others. Where is your humanity?”
“My humanity,” the Count replied, “is trapped inside of a painted panel that has been generally ignored for hundreds of years. And worse, you nor anyone else will recognize that I have been painted by one of the greatest artists who ever lived.”
“Not Botticelli again.” Giovanni shook his head. “Please, let’s not go into that. You didn’t finish telling me about Sergei, Catherine’s son. He took you to Paris. What happened?”
“I have no intention of discussing more of my past until you have me examined and see that I was painted by Botticelli.”
Giovanni sighed. “Come on, don’t be that way. I’ve had a lovely day visiting my old neighborhood, and I don’t need you spoiling it.”
The Count remained silent.
Giovanni continued, “If experts in my field don’t agree that you were painted by Botticelli, I’m going to look very foolish.”
“The potential gains,” the Count said, “which I am certain will result, outweigh your imagined disgrace, were you right and I were wrong. Verifying my authenticity will make you a wealthy man.”
Giovanni recalled Annie’s analogy—it was like being in a contest and never learning the results. Even her logic was difficult to argue against.
“I’ll consider it,” Giovanni said. “Now tell me what happened to Sergei.”
“I am not asking you to consider the possibility,” the Count said. “I want your promise that you will have my portrait examined.”
“All right,” Giovanni relented. “I will make this agreement with you, and I always honor my word. If you will just for today tell me about your time in France, I will agree to send you to a laboratory for analysis.”
“Do you swear?”
“Yes. I swear.”
“As a gentleman and restorer?”
“Yes, Count.”
“I agree to your terms,” the Count said. “But I must warn you, Signor Fabrizzi, my time in France was a disturbing period.”
“Did something bad happen to Sergei?” Giovanni rolled his desk chair closer to the easel and sat down.
“It was appalling,” the Count replied. “When we arrived in Paris, Sergei was given the name of a lady who lived just off the Avenue George V. She was an American. A professional widow. She made a career of marrying rich elderly men, soon to expire, and inheriting their fortunes. However, her apartment was rundown and suffered from countless leaks that she had neglected to repair.”
“You stayed in her apartment.”
“Thank God, no. With all those leaks from the apartment above, I would have been in great danger. The lady had two servants’ rooms on the top floor. They were small but had a pleasant enough view. She allowed Sergei to stay in these rooms rent-free, provided he walked her hideous little dog three times a day and serve as her butler whenever she entertained, which was often. He was also required to do some shopping and cooking. It was at Avenue George V that Sergei realized he was a homosexual. The American lady surrounded herself with many such men, regularly inviting them to her frequent parties. There was a former Mexican male prostitute, a Portuguese jeweler, an Italian florist, an American antique dealer, several hairdressers, and an assortment of designers, actors, and poets. A particular fellow, another Russian whose name was Antinko Fetisov, seduced Sergei. I believe Antinko was attracted to Sergei’s exotic appearance, with his long hair and angular features. I myself have never seen a man with so small a waist. In any case, their relationship developed and Antinko invited Sergei to move into his opulent apartment on Rue Jacob in Saint Germain des Prés. So that became my next home. Antinko also offered Sergei a monthly stipend to work full-time as a dress designer.”
“Sounds like he did all right for himself,” Giovanni said. “But was he still a thief? Earlier, you said Sergei stole money from his grandfather while the poor man slept.”
The Count hesitated. “The acts I witnessed in Paris did not include further thievery. Perhaps he had reformed. Perhaps his change of interests was a factor. Sergei was very fond of clothing design, among other passions. He soon established a reputation for designing attractive Cossack-style blouses with ample embroidery and with emeralds and sapphires for buttons. He designed flamboyant pajamas and elegant headdresses for evening wear as well as small, chic handbags. He was also well known for his accented waistlines.”
“I get it.” Giovanni assumed that he had detected a pattern to the Count’s stories. “Your owners. At first they are successful and rise to the top, so the fall is that much harder.”
“I would not say that is true in all cases. The story of Sergei ends when we parted. You see, Antinko did not have a great eye for fine art, and he told Sergei to sell me because he did not like my portrait. Can you imagine that? More concerned with pleasing his lover, Sergei took me to one of his favorite clients, Henri Meyerstein, and proposed that he should become the new owner of my portrait. For a price, of course.”
“But you were a gift from his mother,” Giovanni said. “Then he sells you? That little creep. But maybe I don’t get it. You said it was appalling. It’s not that terrible.”
“Sergei did not have a terrible end,” the Count said. “In fact, I later learned that he had become enormously successful, famous even. It was his acts of decadence, many of which I was forced to witness, that were appalling beyond description. I was hung in their bedroom, you understand.”
“Oh.” Giovanni realized, “You mean, you watched them…”
“Yes,” the Count replied. “Pry no further, please. Certain details are best to remain unsaid.”
Giovanni nodded. “Agreed. What about your new owner? Monsieur…”
“Monsieur Meyerstein, and his family. Oh how I loved them, and their home as well, an apartment on Avenue Foch, which was richly decorated with other artwork. I was in very good company, you could say. They were much better owners, perhaps, I might even say, superior to all of my previous owners. Not only kind, Monsieur Meyerstein was a striking man. Tall, dashing, and very elegant. He would walk out of the house every day with a top hat, cape, and a silver-handled cane.”
“And his wife?”
“She was great reason for my love of their household. You see, Carmella was from Florence. Elegant and beautiful. When she laughed it was like a Tchaikovsky symphony. The Meyersteins were great patrons of the arts, music, ballet, and theater. I still recall how Monsieur Meyerstein, when he first saw me, went to the end of the dining room and held me aloft, proudly. I was so happy to hang there, able to witness their children, Daniel and Elise, grow up and prosper. I would have been proud to spend generations on their wall at Avenue Foch.”
“Would have?” Giovanni said. “What happened?”
“German soldiers came to Paris,” the Count replied.
“The Nazis. World War II.”
“War indeed. There were countless soldiers and many noisy vehicles. I shall never forget the sight of Monsieur and Madame Meyerstein as they stood by the window, tears in their eyes, as troops marched through the streets. A few days later, four soldiers, dressed in black uniforms and boots, burst into the apartment. They dragged off poor Monsieur and Madame Meyerstein and their children, Elise and Daniel. The soldiers also took Madame’s sister and brother-in-law, who lived in an apartment one floor up, and their daughter Clara as well.”
“Took them where?”
“I did not accompany them,” the Count said, “so I cannot say with certainty.”
“They were Jewish,” Giovanni realized.
“Yes.”
“I know where they went,” Giovanni said. “Probably Auschwitz.”
“The Meyersteins loved me as much as I loved them. After they were taken away, I never saw them again. Please, tell me their fate.”
“It’s complicated,” Giovanni said. “I’ll explain later. What happened after that?”
“I remained in the apartment in the days that followed. German soldiers came in and out, taking things away, it seemed at their whim. They were quite an odd group. When greeting others, the soldiers would snap their heels, stiffen their posture, and extend one arm as if pointing to the sky. I found their excessive theatrics rather absurd. They completed the ritual by hailing their leader, Hitler. I did not know of the man other than the soldier’s overzealous loyalty to him, as if he were a god to them.”
“His reign over Germany is a dark note in history,” Giovanni said. “I’ll explain later. Tell me what happened to your portrait.”
“The soldiers took many items but were instructed not to touch any of the artwork, of which the Meyersteins had a considerable collection, my portrait included, of course. Some days passed and then two men visited, one clothed in an extravagant military uniform. He appeared intent to let the world know of his importance. The other man was not so pretentious, clothed in a typical jacket and trousers. They spent some time in the apartment inspecting the artwork. As they examined items and spoke to one another, I learned more about the two men. The civilian appeared to be an art historian, acting as an advisor to the man in uniform, whose name was Bruno Lothar. He was definitely in charge, and their task appeared to be the gathering of artwork throughout Paris, which as spoils of war, had become the property of Germany.”
“It wasn’t theirs to take,” Giovanni said. “But that’s another story. However, now I wonder about your portrait. Did you realize the danger you were in?”
“Their visit was by no means pleasant, though I had not sensed danger. What danger do you speak of?”
“You’re unsigned,” Giovanni said. “Knowing the Nazis, you’d probably have made good fuel for a bonfire.”
The Count gasped. “Heavens, I had no idea the soldiers did such things.”
“That and plenty more, far worse. What happened when the men saw your portrait?”
“As they strolled through the apartment, the historian gave his opinion of the various items, primarily their value. Then they both stopped in front of me. They stood there for a couple of minutes appraising my portrait. When Lothar asked the historian if it seemed like a valuable work, the historian replied that it would have been, if it had been signed by a major artist.
“Herr Lothar,” the historian said. “As I doubt the Fuhrer or Reichsmarschall Goering would want this painting, would it be all right if I took this one for myself?”
Lothar replied, “Who in the Reich would want an unsigned faux renaissance painting? By all means, Kreitel, it is yours.”
“Kreitel?” Giovanni became perplexed. “I’ve seen that somewhere before. Recently.” He was certain that he had but struggled to remember where. He went to the strong room and found the crate in which the Count had been shipped, picked it up, and twisted it around to view all sides. There it was, in black spray-painted stencil lettering on the side of the crate, the name Kreitel.
“The historian’s name was Kreitel?” Giovanni stepped out of the strong room.
“That is how Lothar addressed him.”
“Any first name?” Giovanni asked.
“Lothar and other soldiers only referred to him as Kreitel.”
“How is it spelled?” Giovanni glanced past the open door to the strong room, beyond which he could see the stencil lettering on the crate.
“I do not know,” the Count said. “I have only their spoken words.”
Giovanni realized somewhere else he had seen the name, and it was before he ever saw the crate. Long before. He approached the portrait. “Lothar called him Kreitel. Are you absolutely positive?”
“Of course I am,” the Count said. “They were standing directly before me, as you are now. How could I be mistaken? Then Lothar instructed other soldiers to take my portrait from the wall and put me in a crate.”
Giovanni seized the painting from the easel.
“What are you doing?” the Count asked.
“Putting you away.” Giovanni entered the strong room.
“But why?”
“I have a hunch. I’ll explain later.”
“When will you return?” the Count asked. “Are you going to honor your promise to have me tested?”
“Later.” Giovanni reached for the crate in which the painting had been shipped. He held up the panel and stared at the painted face of the Count. “Are you certain his name was Kreitel? Could it have been another name that sounds similar?”
“Signor Fabrizzi. His name was indeed Kreitel. I would not lie. I am a man of honor.”
“You are not a man. You are a painting. And if you are wrong, I will reduce you to ashes, whether you were painted by Botticelli or not.”
Giovanni slid the painting back into its wooden prison.